


pretty girls make graves

by Snickfic



Category: Rusty Lake | Cube Escape (Video Games), Rusty Lake: Roots
Genre: Gen, Gravedigging, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:35:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28041756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snickfic/pseuds/Snickfic
Summary: “His name is Frank,” said a new voice. It was Rose. She came to stand at Leonard’s side, and as they watched, the man Frank returned to digging. Only a few feet away, Uncle Albert stared sightlessly up at the sky. “He came from the well,” Rose said. “He’s our cousin.”
Relationships: Frank Vanderboom & Leonard Vanderboom & Rose Vanderboom
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	pretty girls make graves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Andian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andian/gifts).



> Incredibly on-the-nose title is from Gravedigger by MXMS.
> 
> Recip, I'm so glad to get the chance to write this for you! Some of the canonical dates seemed kind of nonsensical, so for the purposes of this fic, Frank getting out of the well, killing Albert, and getting a bath all happen within the same day or two in 1926.

As long as the weather held, Leonard spent his nights in the lean-to he’d built at the side of the house. It was better than being indoors, where the walls closed in like the sides of a trench and strange creatures haunted his dreams: crows and strange symbols on legs and the worst of all, a man with an elk skull for a head and long-nimbled fingers that looked like—

Well. It didn’t matter whose fingers they looked like. Better to sleep outdoors with the fresh air and just an old piece of canvas stretched between him and the stars.

So it was that he was lying there in his lean-to with his eyes open, dreading the moment when his eyes must inevitably fall shut, when he heard the ring of a shovel against stone. Then he heard it again. Then again. The sun was long set, the moon full and bright, and someone had chosen just this time in particular to dig a hole in the ground.

The noise was almost as bad as the nightmares he felt lurking behind his eyelids. Leonard lay there a while longer, until finally sheer, simple irritation at the clamor made him sit up with a huff. He fit his peg leg in place and pulled on enough clothes to be decent in. 

It was only once he’d stood up outside the lean-to that he realized what direction the sound was coming from. It was coming from the place his parents were buried. 

Leonard couldn’t have said what he expected to find. Albert opening up a place in the dark earth for Rose to lie in, maybe, having tired of her at last. Albert bringing Leonard’s own mother to the surface again to do whatever mysterious, evil thing he’d thought of this time. Albert featured in every scenario Leonard could think of, and so when he reached the little cemetary, it was Albert he saw tossing another shovelful of dirt on a pile, lit by lantern-glow.

But no. It wasn’t Albert at all, but a wild man covered in hair. Leonard had never seen him before. “What are you doing?” Leonard said.

The man turned to look it him. His face was furred like a bear rug, but his eyes were bright in the center of it. He shrugged and pointed the shovel towards a long bundle Leonard hadn’t noticed until now. Cautiously he stepped closer.

It was Uncle Albert. His eyes were open, but he was not awake. He lay very still, but he was not asleep. Also he was missing the top of his head, and inside, he was hollow.

“What have you done?” Leonard said, even though it was quite evident what the man had done. “Who _are_ you?”

“His name is Frank,” said a new voice. It was Rose. She came to stand at Leonard’s side, and as they watched, the man Frank returned to digging. Only a few feet away, Uncle Albert stared sightlessly up at the sky. 

“Where did he come from?” Leonard asked. He’d asked the same thing about Rose once, when she was only a baby, tiny and full of noise. _I found her in the cellar_ , Uncle Albert had said, as if that were an ordinary place to find babies. The house didn’t even _have_ a cellar.

The man Frank scraped the shovel against another stone with a sharp clang that made all three of them wince. “He came from the well,” Rose said. “He’s our cousin.”

Leonard took this in. He’d heard of his cousin Frank, obviously. Leonard’s mother had talked about him a little, well out of Aunt Emma’s hearing. Leonard had always thought of him as a little boy, forever just about seven years old. Leonard looked at the man Frank, huffing with each new spade of dirt and sweating through his shirt. 

“All right,” Leonard said at last. At least they did have a well. Then, “How do you know?”

“Great-grandfather told me,” Rose said calmly. She said everything calmly. She hadn’t been a noisy baby for very long; she’d given it up. Albert had never said what he’d done to make her quiet.

“Great-grandfather who’s dead,” Leonard clarified.

“Yes,” Rose agreed.

There didn’t seem much more to say to that. Leonard thought there were probably other questions he ought to ask, but instead he just stood there next to Rose, and together they watched their cousin Frank dig into the earth, deeper and deeper. First he was wading in it, and then he was in it up to his shoulders. Leonard’s arms ached just watching him. 

Finally Frank disappeared altogether, as though he were burying himself in his own grave. Rose walked over to the hole and called into it, “It’s deep enough now. He won’t be able to climb out.” 

Leonard glanced at Uncle Albert. Uncle Albert gave no indication of climbing anywhere, ever again. 

Some twenty seconds went by without any clanging. Finally, a muffled voice came from the hole. “All right.”

With Rose’s help, Frank pulled himself out of the grave. He was filthy now, covered in grave dirt. He rolled Albert’s body towards the hole. When the corpse teetered on the edge, Frank kicked it sharply in the ribs. There was a crack of breaking bones, and then Albert toppled into the hole and was gone.

Leonard stumped carefully over to peer in, but Albert was beyond the reach of the lantern or moonlight. He was gone into the dark, never to return. Probably. You could never be entirely sure, with Albert. 

Rose had a bucket from somewhere. She began to scoop dirt from the heap and toss it into the grave. Frank laughed when he saw it—a strange, braying sound, but his delight was obvious nonetheless. It was then that Leonard recognized the bucket: it was the one from the well.

Nobody offered Leonard anything to move dirt with. It would have been difficult for him, with the leg. So he only watched, the moon at his back, as they filled the hole Frank had emptied. They put Albert ever deeper beneath the earth.

Leonard’s stump ached, and his flesh leg gew tired. He slumped on the nearest available surface. It took him a little while to realize that it was his grandmother’s gravestone. There beyond hers was his mothers, and beyond his mother’s was his father’s.

Rose came to stand by him, interrupting his thoughts. The grave was filled, he saw, with only a heap of dirt to mark where Albert lay. It’d settle when it rained, probably enough that a pool would form. Frank came over, too, shovel still in hand, and looked at the grave with them. After a while, in a crusty, disused voice, he said, “I’m not sorry I killed him.” Then he peered sidelong at Rose and Leonard.

It seemed to Leonard that Frank was waiting for something. Leonard said, “I think he killed my parents.” He’d never said it before. 

“He did,” Rose said, without hesitation.

Leonard stared at her, astonished. “How do you know?”

She shrugged, and Leonard decided he’d rather not hear the answer. “I’m half your sister, you know,” she said instead.

Leonard nodded. Perhaps he had no more room for surprises, or perhaps this simply wasn’t one. He’d always thought her hair looked like his mother’s. He looked back at Frank, who was watching them carefully—more like an animal than a person, like he was deciding who to trust; whether they were friends who’d feed him or foes who’d hurt.

“You’re filthy,” Rose told him. “You should clean up. Do you remember baths?”

Frank considered this a moment. “No?”

“They’re nice. Warm.”

“Naked?” Frank asked slowly, as if dredging the idea up from the very depths of his mind. 

“Usually.”

“Warm _and_ naked?” He turned to Leonard for confirmation of this apparently unlikely proposal. Leonard nodded. Frank’s hairy face split into a grin, his teeth shining bold and bright. “Let’s go!” He said. He tossed the shovel aside and jogged towards the house.

Leonard looked back the grave. Rose followed his gaze. “He’s dead,” Leonard said, still unable to believe it. Rose hummed thoughtfully. Leonard kept on looking, but no nimble-fingered hands broke the grave’s surface of the earth. Leonard closed his eyes, and somehow no antler-headed man lurked behind his eyelids. Not this time.

Leonard said, “I don’t know what to do now.”

“I have some ideas,” Rose said. Then, unexpectedly, she tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. “You should come into the house. Frank will want a shave, and I don’t know how.”

Leonard stared at the house, its solid square frame and bright-lit windows. As he watched, the shadow of Frank, mysterious hairy cousin Frank, flickered across the curtains. Leonard looked back at the grave one last time, and then he slid off his grandmother’s gravestone and stumped slowly towards the house with Rose still at his elbow.


End file.
